


The Only Monster

by Liralen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Robo!Sam tells Dean that Sam used sex to punish himself, letting Dean hurt him. Dean is horrified because he had no idea. It comes out the first time they're together after Sam is re-souled."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Monster

It isn't an absence in Sam's mind, the year and a half Dean tells him that he's lost. It's nothing like a concussion, or a possession, or a drunken blackout, the murky half-light of distant memory. It's more like a deep, dreamless sleep. Awake, and then awake again.

He remembers feeling Lucifer move inside him, pressing his atoms to their edges, almost too big to be contained by skin and blood. He remembers the open pit and Dean's beautiful, battered face. He remembers falling, closing his eyes at the last moment so he wouldn't have to see, and when he opened them again he was in Bobby's spare bedroom, and the world outside was still spinning in its blithe, lopsided orb.

"It was you, but it wasn't you," Dean tells him, soft and hot against his ear, lips barely skimming the curve. "It was your body, but not the way you move. It was your face, but not the way you smile."

Sam nods, not because he understands, but because he wants to. Wants to feel Dean's sigh tremble across him in relief, wants to feel Dean's fingers dig and clutch, holding on to what he thought was lost for good. Wants to feel Dean bruise him down to the core, write his name on Sam's bones like angelic runes, so they'll know where to send him if he ever gets lost again.

"It was your voice," Dean says haltingly, the rasp of his words split by some unnamed emotion, something worse than the few details he's told Sam so far. "It was your voice, but it wasn't the things you'd say."

"I'm sorry," Sam tells him, helpless. So fucking helpless, again, always; all his good intentions turned upside down, hurting Dean just by drawing breath. By being too young, or stupid, or proud. Sam reaches back, curving his hand around Dean's hip and pulling him closer, pulling strength from the solid shape of Dean's body against his. "I'm sorry. It wasn't me. I didn't know what I was saying."

Dean draws a hitching breath, silent, but Sam can feel it against the blades of his shoulders, the way it snags and tears something lose in Dean's chest. Pressed chest to back, it's like having two heartbeats, the muffled thump of Dean's heart always a little quicker than his own.

"I know," Dean says. He breathes it against the back of Sam's neck, delicate counterpoint to the hard bite he presses to Sam's nape, the brutal strength of his hands as he pushes Sam away long enough to spin him around and drag him back again.

The first kiss is hot and savage, furious, a wet and uncoordinated meeting of tongues and teeth. Sam's mouth feels swollen and slick, bruised where Dean sucks and nips, something wild and blood-hungry in his bites. It feels like being devoured and destroyed, the way Dean's mouth works against his. Licking deep, taking possession, and Sam opens to him without a thought; submits and gives over, falling back on the bed when Dean pushes. Dean crawls up his body on hands and knees, looming over him, and Sam lays still with his head back and his throat bared, offering whatever Dean wants to take.

The second kiss is soft and slow, almost teasing, the barest glide of Dean's tongue tracing his mouth until it buzzes with sensation. Dean's hands on him are so careful, skimming his chest as he pushes off Sam's shirt, tracing the lines of his hips when he peels back Sam's jeans, and somehow Sam finds it harder to breathe than when Dean was stealing the air from his lungs. Dean gets him naked, pushes Sam's knees apart and drags the pads of his fingers up the backs of Sam's thighs, and it's not _enough_ , it's so far from being enough and still so good, and Sam's going to go crazy from it.

"Dean," he urges, trying to catch Dean's hands, turn his touch harder, but Dean resists and Sam can't hold back a tiny sob of breath. "Dean, please."

Dean smoothes a hand down Sam's calf, presses a tickling kiss to the back of Sam's knee and hooks it over his own shoulder. "It wasn't you," he murmurs, words humming against Sam's skin.

"I know, I know," Sam mumbles mindlessly, his whole body first easing in relief when Dean shoulders under his other leg, then swiftly tightening in the anticipation of pain, a sweet surge of fear/lust throbbing through him, making his hard cock flush and gleam. Sam's going to die if he doesn't get Dean inside him, doesn't feel that hot burn forcing him open, flash fire searing him clean, making him good for Dean.

Dean looks up, meets Sam's eyes across the length of his body. "It wasn't the things you'd say," he says, soft but clear. Achingly serious, and Sam struggles to listen because Dean wants him to hear. "But that doesn't mean it wasn't the truth."

"Dean—" Sam starts, uncertain, sharp flare of dread clutching his heart, but then Dean's mouth dips and opens over his hole and Sam's breath explodes in a shocked cry.

They've never done this. Sam would never ask for this, would never even _think_ it. It's dirty and embarrassing and _wrong_ , wrong in a way that shocks Sam down to his bones, because this isn't for Dean, this is for Sam. It isn't bringing Dean pleasure, it's just making him dirty, just for Sam, for selfish Sam who asks too much and is too much and—

"Dean," Sam gasps, face on fire as he tries to squirm away and gets nowhere, held tight in Dean's strong grip as Dean licks him open with wet, obscene noises. "Dean, stop it. Stop!"

Dean mercifully pulls away, but Sam's relief is short-lived once he meets his brother's eyes. Dean looks confused and uncertain and, fuck, _hurt_ , and Sam did that. Again, again and again, and there's no monster inside him this time, no Lucifer and no stolen soul to blame. Sam is the only monster here.

"You don't like it?" Dean asks, like Sam isn't having a small panic attack underneath him. "It doesn't feel good?"

"It—yes, but I want—just, just come up here, please," Sam begs, voice catching and breaking a little. "I want you inside me. Don't you want that?"

Green eyes study him unblinkingly, until Sam has to look away. "I want to make you feel good," Dean says, and his tongue slides over Sam's hole again, drawing a trembling moan.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, hips lifting once from the bed before he can force them down, throat thick with shame. "Oh god, you do, always do. Please—"

"Not always," Dean mumbles, biting gently at Sam's ass, soft shock of pleasure that trembles down to his toes. "Not when I hurt you. Not when you lie and let me hurt you."

"You never hurt me," Sam tells him, palms coming up to press over his closed eyes, cover his face so Dean can't read whatever expression is written there.

"You're a bad liar, Sammy." Dean's voice is warm and slow, sounds obscurely pleased. Sam's always been a bad liar, but Dean's always been good at believing what he wants.

Rustle of movement from below, and when Dean's voice comes again it's closer, petal-soft against Sam's throat. "I never wanted to hurt you," he says, just a whisper and a warm curl of breath, shooting sparks of pleasure down his spine. Dean's hand moves between Sam's thighs, presses sticky-slick to Sam's hole and slips a finger inside, completing the circuit, and Sam's nerves light up like the Vegas skyline. "Never wanted anything to hurt you."

"It's okay," Sam grinds out, jaw clenched and sore. He's taut and sharp with need, trying to grind down against Dean's finger, but Dean bars a muscled arm across his hips and holds him down, makes him hold still and take it as he eases another finger in and works them together, stretching and pulling. "Dean—"

"Not yet," Dean says, and Sam's not sure which he's answering, Sam's reassurance or his unvoiced plea. Feels like both, the way Dean bends and licks the length of Sam's throat, twists his fingers and coaxes out a ragged groan. They're long past the point where Sam would usually have Dean inside him, and his thighs are trembling, damp with Dean's spit and too much lube, everything slick and easy as Dean fits in another finger and fucks Sam open on all three.

It feels too good, too good and confusing without the steadying thrum of pain to even him out. Sam rubs at his eyes until colors spark and swirl across his eyelids, bites the heel of his palm and tries to breathe past it, but Dean keeps jolting him back into his body, twisting his wrist just right or sucking at the perfect spot behind Sam's jaw, little thrills of fucksogood that shock Sam back into the moment, make it impossible for him to be anywhere but here.

Eons later Dean's finally shifting, working his fingers free and switching them for his blood-hot cock. Sam's ass feels loose and wet, sloppy with lube, but it still stretches and clenches when Dean rocks inside, a firm push and then one long, perfect slide that makes them both groan.

"So good," Dean whispers, nuzzling Sam's cheek, nose bumping Sam's hands where they're still hiding his face. "So good for me, Sam, so beautiful."

"Dean," Sam gasps, breath sticking, and feels hot, mortifying tears trickle past his fingers. Dean pauses, hips pulled back and about to thrust home, and Sam comes a little unhinged, shaking his head and pulling his hands away from his own face to clutch at Dean's shoulders.

"No, no, it's good," Sam murmurs urgently. "It's so much, but it's so good, it doesn't hurt. Don't stop. Oh god, please, I'll have to kill you if you stop."

Sam's face burns hotly, but he opens his eyes to catch Dean's grin, halfway between affection and self-satisfaction. Dean catches his mouth in a warm kiss as he shifts and buries himself to the hilt.

It's all Sam can do to hold on after that, Dean's thick cock filling him hot and perfect, and then Dean whispers, "Got you back, Sammy, missed you so damn bad," and he stops trying. He slips a hand down between their stomachs and just wraps it around his dick, and that's enough to have him soaring and coming, slickness spilling over his fingers as he feels Dean slam in hard.

Minutes later Dean goes rigid with a little choked sound that could be Sam's name, and Sam can feel him pulsing deep inside, dragging out little aftershocks of pleasure. They collapse in a tangle of limbs and sweat and slow, lazy kisses, and Sam doesn't miss the ache, doesn't miss the satisfying sting of pain and shame. Dean's in his arms, and the world's still standing outside, and Sam is not a vessel, or a monster, or a machine. He's a little brother, and a lover, and a friend. And he's Dean's.


End file.
